


All I Want to Do Is Make Love to You

by MystradeSexyTimes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sherlock being a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MystradeSexyTimes/pseuds/MystradeSexyTimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been much too long since Greg and Mycroft have had any alone time  …</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want to Do Is Make Love to You

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first Mystrades I ever wrote. I was shy writing porn at the time. Those were the days. *wipes tear* Also, I know certain things don't jibe with the Reichenbach timeline. This was supposed to be a whole series for a friend who ended up deciding to ship Johnstrade. I posted this to my tumblr a while back.

Greg was in the middle of unbuttoning Mycroft's shirt when the “minor” government official's mobile buzzed.

“Leave it,” Greg mumbled, kissing his lover's neck. “Whoever it is can sod off.”

“Gregory, only a select few have this number,” said Mycroft as he reached for his phone. “It must be an emergency.”

He looked down at the device and grimaced. “And it is. It's Libya.”

“Libya can go fuck itself,” Greg groused, trying unsuccessfully to pull the tall man on top of him.

“It's in the midst of doing just that. There's been a situation with the rebels.” Mycroft sighed deeply. “Gregory, I'm sorry. I have to go.”

Greg groaned and rolled onto his back. “Mycroft, it's been two bloody weeks since we've –!”

“I know, and no one is sorrier about that than I am,” said Mycroft as he hurriedly buttoned his shirt and got back into his waistcoat. “I promise I will make it up to you.”

“You said that the last time when Spain had a 'situation.' And then when Greece 'needed some advice.' And then when Pakistan was having 'some issues'!”

“I know. But this is really unavoidable,” said Mycroft, tucking his mobile into his back pocket. “I swear that I will find the time, Gregory. But for the moment, I suggest you cover your ears.”

“Cover my – what are you talking about?”

“Momentarily, there will be a helicopter landing on the roof to pick me up.”

Greg  moaned in something other than pleasure as distinct whirring sounds came closer and closer. He didn't cover his ears, but he did scream curses at the wall as his boyfriend, with a sad frown, climbed out of the window and onto a rope ladder that pulled him up and away.

(*)

Mycroft lit the final candle and then stepped back to survey his handiwork. The table was laid in immaculate style, the room was awash in soft light, and dinner was waiting in the oven.

He wanted things to be absolutely perfect for his date with Gregory. He had much to atone for and he anticipated a lovely evening. This time he informed certain people that he was not available unless nuclear war was in the offing.

Mycroft didn't want a repeat of the week before when he'd been whisked away to Tripoli for nothing. The rebels had caved immediately and released the hostages unharmed, and the foreign press had been given a sanitized version of events. He could have conducted the whole thing from the Diogenes, or better still, from Gregory's bed. Heads had rolled in his office for getting him mixed up in such low-level foolishness.

Not literally, of course. There had been enough of that in Libya and elsewhere.

Mycroft was just checking on the Beef Wellingtons when his mobile buzzed. His eyes narrowed as he took it out. Anthea wouldn't dare put a call through after his explicit instructions …

And she hadn't. It was a text.

Mycroft felt his stomach clench when he recognized Greg's number.

**Sorry, can't make dinner. Quadruple homicide in Covent Garden. GL**

Mycroft grimaced. _Of course_ mass murder would happen on the one day he had free and decided to cook!

**Perhaps you can come later? I can keep the food warm. I have missed you. MH**

**Dunno how long I'll be here. Messy one. 5 interrogations already set up. DCI wants me to talk to media. GL**

Mycroft growled as he typed: **I** **could have him fired, if that would help. MH**

**Please don't. I like him. Good job getting rid of the last one, though. GL**

The phone buzzed a second later.

**Miss you too btw. Promise we'll get this sorted. GL**

The elder Holmes brother sighed in defeat. He couldn't expect Greg to be so understanding of his work-related issues and not do so in return. Still, he had cooked! And had gotten the massage oil he knew Gregory liked. The sandalwood ...

**Of course. Has Sherlock yet arrived at the crime scene? MH**

**No. He and John went down to Brixam for the weekend for a short hol. GL**

Mycroft went pale at the words. What the hell sort of world was it where his sociopath little brother could go off and have delightfully sordid sex with his paramour while _he_ was left with nothing but slightly overdone Beef Wellingtons and a raging erection?

It took him about a half-hour to take care of both problems, but he still went to bed frustrated and unsatisfied.

(*)

The next few weeks were more of the same. Whenever Mycroft was free, Greg was pulled away to some gruesome crime scene. When the detective inspector had a clear evening, there was unfailingly some geopolitical conflagration that required Mycroft's undivided attention.

One day they managed to snatch some time in the late afternoon to meet for coffee. After a hurried snog, they sat with their mugs and their mobiles and got down to business.

“What about Tuesday?”

“Cabinet meeting, I'm afraid.” Mycroft frowned at his calendar. “I suppose Saturday is out of the question?”

“Sorry. Claire has a recital, and Joan and I agreed no significant others at the kids' events for awhile.” Greg looked annoyed. “Why's Friday out again?”

“Briefing at the Serbian ambassador's. Why not Friday next?”

“Dimmock's stag party. I'm in charge of getting the cake –”

Greg slid into an abrupt silence and looked up. He started to laugh. Mycroft's frown grew more pronounced.

“Gregory, I _have_ told you that I am no more enamored of cake than I am of other sweets ...”

“No, no, no, it's not that,” chuckled Lestrade. “It's just, do you realize we're trying to _schedule_ sex? Like an old married couple?”

His laughter faded away at the look on Mycroft's face. “Mycroft?”

The elder Holmes sighed softly. “I see. Do you wish, then, to discontinue our relationship?”

“What? No!” Greg was aghast. “I was just taking the piss. Hell, there's nothing to do _but_ laugh at this point. Either that, or hit something. And I don't fancy it'll do much for the Met's reputation to have a detective inspector start a punch-up in Starbucks.”

“Ah. I see. It is just … I would assume that you have very negative associations with marriage,” said Mycroft. “So your comparison seemed a bit ominous.”

Greg smirked. “Well, part of the problem there was that she was scheduling sex with _other_ people.”

“An excellent point.” Mycroft smiled wanly. “You can rest assured that I will never follow suit in that regard.”

“I know. S'why I'm here,” said Greg in a soft voice. “And speaking of suits, I really fancy the one you're wearing today.”

“Really?” Mycroft looked down at the elegantly understated suit he wore. “Thank you, Gregory. It's new. I'm not certain, however, about the tie.”

“I like the tie,” said Greg, leaning close, his voice dropping into a register that made Mycroft's skin tingle. “I could use it to muffle you while I rip that bloody suit off you with my teeth.”

Mycroft tilted his head. Dilated pupils, pulse jumping in his throat, trembling hands, flushed lips. The signs were unmistakable, but he wanted to see if his dear detective inspector would actually admit to it.

“Gregory … are you aroused right now?”

“Aroused? I'm so hard, I'm practically holding up the fucking table. You?”

“Yes. That, exactly.” Mycroft gnawed his lip. “This is ridiculous. We simply have to find some way in which –”

He broke off, eyes wide. “Dear god … but we are _idiots_!”

“What?”

“Gregory, we have been wasting valuable time in trying to coordinate our schedules,” said Mycroft, his cheeks tinged a faint pink. “We are together _now_. We are with each other _now_. We have time _now._ ”

“Time? Mycroft, it's a half-hour to your flat from here and more than an hour to mine. I've got to be back for a DI's meeting in 20 minutes –”

“I wasn't suggesting we go to either of our flats.” Mycroft shook his head. “I said we are together _now_. _Here_. In _this place_.”

“But – oh.” Greg looked amazed, and then skeptical. “ _Here_? Where? Under the table? I can barely get my knees under, let alone my –”

“There are facilities here, are there not?”

“Facili – hold it. You mean you fancy a quick one back in the men's bog?”

“Not an ideal choice, I grant you. But we must take advantage of what little time and opportunity we have,” said Mycroft. “Besides which if I don't have you, and soon, there are several small countries that might cease to exist.”

Greg sniggered, trying to imagine being squeezed into a dingy stall with Mycroft flush against him. Both of them lowering their trousers and pants just enough to get to the good parts, pressing into each other while trying to avoid the muck and rubbish … Mycroft guiding himself between his spread cheeks, one hand snaking around to –

Lestrade gripped the edge of the table. “Why the _fuck_ are we still sitting here?”

“I've no idea,” said Mycroft hoarsely. “I suggest you put on your coat in order to camouflage your … condition. I will use my briefcase for the same purpose.”

They stood, but before they could even push their chairs back, their mobiles went off at the same time.

Staring forlornly at each other, they both slowly sat down again. Mobiles were unearthed and glared at as if they were instruments of the devil.

Greg was the first to sigh.

“A domestic in Brixton. Likely murder-suicide, but Sally says something looks 'weird.'” He looked up. “You?”

“I'm being sent some files. Apparently, Prince Harry has gotten into something of an unfortunate situation during his trip to Las Vegas.” Mycroft's eyebrows rose as he perused the attachments. “A _v_ _ery_ unfortunate situation. I have to go to Clarence House immediately.”

When they both stood again, Mycroft's eyes darted downward, observing with much regret that Greg was noticeably deflated. He understood the feeling completely.

“You know,” said Lestrade, as they walked out into the misting weather, “you could come to Dimmock's stag 'do. After the blokes get pissed, which'll probably happen in the first 15 minutes, you and I could go off somewhere ...”

“Thank you, Gregory, but I don't think that would be quite fair to Detective Inspector Dimmock. The night _is_ supposed to be about him, after all, and if you are in charge of the cake – and, undoubtedly, the … _filling_ – then it is obvious that _you_ are the one who organized the affair in the first place, and as such must devote yourself to your role as host.”

“Shit. Too right. Especially as it's taking place at my flat – well, some of it.” Greg sighed, turning his face up to the sky. “I really hate my life sometimes.”

“It could be a great deal worse,” said Mycroft, glancing again at his mobile. “Your grandmother _could_ be the Queen of England, who has just gotten quite a shock and is most _decidedly_ not amused.”

Greg winced. “That bad? Guess there's no chance you can let me know what it's about, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled. “Don't worry, Gregory. We're dealing with the _American_ press. It will be all over the Internet before you get back to the Yard, I'm afraid. I'm being called in to the contain the situation so that it doesn't get further out of hand.”

Later, when Lestrade had a moment's break from reviewing witness statements from the Brixton case, he Googled the latest news on Prince Harry's trip to the States and got an eyeful. He chuckled in sympathy, knowing that at his age, he'd done some equally ridiculous things, but then, he was not a highly recognizable young royal sowing his wild oats in the information age - and in Las Vegas in all places.

But Lestrade reckoned that whatever Harry was going to face from his grandmother and father, he could at least say he'd had fun – the sort of fun Greg _hadn't_ had in far too long to think about. And so he ceased feeling sorry for the lucky little prat.

(*)

It was nearly a week after the missed opportunity in the coffee shop that Greg got a text from Sherlock requesting that he come immediately to Baker Street. When he pressed the consulting detective for more details, he received a terse reply that he was wasting time and that he could either come over or not, but if he didn't, he wanted to be absolved of all consequences.

Lestrade sighed and announced to Sally his intention of taking an early lunch. Not that he'd be eating at all, most likely, for the rest of the day. Going to 221B tended to put him off his food, what with the decomposing body parts and viscera strewn around the place.

Still, he figured he owed Sherlock a visit. He had solved that Brixton domestic, after all (what _was_ it lately with psychotic taxi drivers?), and he still had the case file that Greg asked him to return. Three _days_ ago. But he knew better than to think too much about “Sherlockian” time. He wanted an even chance of getting to retirement age with his mind still intact.

He'd barely rung the bell before the front door of 221B Baker Street was flung open and a long, pallid arm pulled him inside.

“There isn't much time,” said Sherlock Holmes, glancing at his watch. “Upstairs, quickly.”

Lestrade stood his ground, crossing his arms. “Sherlock, I don't have time to faff about. If this isn't about the Brixton case –”

“ _Upstairs_. _Quickly_.”

Sherlock capped the over-enunciation with a roll of his eyes that clearly indicated he thought Greg might have been dropped on his head as a child.

Lestrade decided to just get on with it. An uncommunicative Sherlock was as infuriating – and potentially dangerous – as was the Sherlock who flung out facts and deductions at a thousand words a second. He only hoped this wasn't another call about a would-be burglar “falling” out of a window.

Greg trudged up the stairs and was somewhat surprised when they bypassed the sitting room and continued up to John's room. Was John hurt, then? Sick? Had he finally snapped and wanted to swear out a complaint against his flatmate?

They reached the door, which was closed, and Greg cocked his head, trying to pick up any sounds beyond the door: talking, typing, screaming …

“One moment,” said Sherlock, placing a hand on Lestrade's shoulder as he stepped forward. He opened the door, and almost in the same motion, shoved Greg into the room.

Caught off-guard, Greg went sprawling, just managing to not go arse over head onto the floor. He wasn't too rattled, however, to hear the door slam behind him followed by an ominous click.

“ _Sherlock, what the bloody fuck_ –”

“ – It's useless, Gregory. He's in a mood.”

Stunned, Lestrade looked up. Mycroft was sitting on John's bed in … a sheet?

“Mycroft?” Greg straightened, looking at his lover in shock. “What the hell are you doing here? What's going on?”

“Detective Inspector. Mycroft.” Sherlock's imperious tone was only slightly muffled through the door. “You have both been annoying me for the past five weeks. Lestrade, you've made the most ridiculously preventable errors at three crime scenes now. Mycroft, you've been relentlessly annoying in almost every category. It is obvious that you both are in need of sexual activity – with each other, as disgusting as I find that. So be it. I have altered the door so that it locks from the outside. You have 45 minutes in which to debase yourselves however you see fit. The sheets you use will be burned after you are finished. I will unlock the door once the time has elapsed.”

Greg stared at Mycroft. “Is he fucking _serious_?”

“Yes, Detective Inspector. I am. You now have 44 minutes, 52 seconds.”

Greg  glared at the closed door. “You are not going to fucking _stand_ there outside the door while we –”

“You are wasting time, Lestrade. Forty-four minutes, 31 seconds ...”

The officer rattled the knob, then turned it with as much strength as he could muster. It wouldn't budge.

“Detective Inspector, I would conserve my energy for whatever lewd and disturbing carnal acts you enjoy giving to and receiving from my brother. Forty-three minutes, 49 seconds.”

Greg turned away from the door, rubbing one sore palm against the other. “Mycroft, what the _fuck_ – how did –”

“I was distracted,” said Mycroft, shifting on the bed. “My brother texted me that he needed my expertise on a delicate matter. I should have known immediately that there was something amiss.”

“Why? Because he actually invited you over here?”

“Well that, and the fact that he used the word 'your' and 'expertise' in a sentence pertaining to myself.”

Greg looked the man over. “Do I even want to know why you're in a _sheet_?”

“More of Sherlock's nonsense, I'm afraid,” sighed Mycroft. “When I entered, he 'tripped' and spilled some noxious substance on my clothing. I assumed it was some experiment having to do with corrosives, so I hurried to change out of the things. I was about to ring my assistant to bring me a new suit and a hazardous materials container when again, my brother distracted me. He seemed genuinely remorseful and suggested I make use of the shower. He may have also mentioned that the substance was known to cause permanent skin discoloration if not rinsed off immediately.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Indeed. So I showered, and Sherlock said he'd laid out one of his dressing gowns for me in John's room,” said Mycroft. “As I know he hates having me amongst his personal belongings, that did not seem overtly strange. However, when I stepped in here, I found nothing, and he locked the door behind me. In thinking on it, I could deduce only one reason that Sherlock would contrive to get me here, and then ensure that I was naked, in a room with a _bed_ , with no access to clothing. I knew then to simply await your arrival.”

“Forty-one minutes,” came the lofty voice from behind the door. “I don't hear bedsprings creaking ...”

"God. If I didn't know him better, I'd say he _wanted_ to hear us shag." Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Okay. So should I feel like punching him or hugging him for thinking of this?”

“Neither.” Mycroft sneered at the closed door. “But he is absolutely correct. Neither of us has been at our best of late. I won't attribute it all to the lack of sexual activity, but it certainly hasn't helped. Self-gratification is just not the same ...”

“Yeah, I know that wanking can't make up for it all, but _this_ is sort of extreme, innit?”

“ _This_ is Sherlock Holmes,” said Mycroft, shrugging. “I would have supposed you'd know what to expect from him by now, Gregory.”

“I never know _what the fuck_ to expect from him from second to second!”

Mycroft nodded gravely. “Precisely.”

Greg watched the sheet slid down a bit with the motion, exposing a freckled shoulder. Lestrade felt his mouth starting to water.

“All right, so … he won't let us out until we shag?” Lestrade noted a gap in the sheet and the tip of Mycroft's cock peeking out the side in a bid for freedom. “And he said we have, what, forty-some-odd minutes?”

“Apparently so.”

“So … well ...” Greg approached the bed, towering over Mycroft, openly smirking. “As long as we happen to be here –”

“Gregory, you can't be serious.” Mycroft looked stunned. “My brother is right outside the door –”

“ – With a bloody stopwatch. I noticed,” murmured Greg, running his hands over Mycroft's chest. “But _you're_ in here, nearly naked, and I'm in here about to come in my pants just looking at you … why not take advantage?”

Lestrade bent to nuzzle Mycroft's neck. He muttered a protest, but Greg didn't let up. He licked a stripe from Mycroft's jawline to right below his Adam's apple, sucking lightly on the fleshy spot. He grabbed Mycroft's cock through the thin material of the sheet, shocking a grunt from his lover. Greg smiled against his skin, gently smoothing the sheet off his shoulders until it puddled at his waist –

“... Thirty-six minutes, 13 seconds.”

“Dear god.” Mycroft pulled back, squeezing his eyes shut. “This is absolutely untenable.”

“Mycroft, c'mon ...” Greg kissed the side of his face. “Just ignore him and concentrate on me ...”

He massaged the area between Mycroft's shoulder blades, feeling with clumsy fingers for the zip on his own trousers. Mycroft shuddered beneath his touch, tilting up eagerly for a kiss.

“... Thirty-five minutes, nine seconds.”

The taller man pulled away, shaking his head. “You truly wish to make love with _that_ as background music?”

Growling, Greg whirled toward the door.

“Oi, Big Ben! Shut the fuck up! We're trying to concentrate here!”

“That … is … _the most_ … disturbing thing I've ever heard! Ugh! Deleting!”

Mycroft readjusted the sheet and pulled Lestrade down next to him on the bed. "Gregory, I'm sorry, but I can't. I simply can't."

“I know he's being a massive twat,” said Greg, “but you were keen to shag me in the men's – where anybody could've walked in on us, or heard us. How's this any different? And he knows what we're doing in here! Or what we're likely to be doing, anyway.”

“Yes, but the chance of discovery, in that instance, added an element of titillation. This is just Sherlock being … Sherlock. And that, I'm afraid, cools my ardor.”

“Fuck. Well. I guess that's that then.”

"I am truly sorry, Gregory." Mycroft looked dejected. "I do realize the irony of our being in the same place at the same time, and an unfettered - somewhat - opportunity, but -"

"Eh, I guess I understand." He sighed. "I don't know if I'd fancy shagging with my brother right outside the door, either. It was bad enough showering and trying to have a wank with my older brother outside telling me to hurry it up and not get any spunk on the showerhead."

"It must have been glorious growing up in your household."

"Something like that." Greg snuggled into Mycroft's warmth. “So now what? He's not going to open the door before 'time's up.' You got something that can bugger the lock? Credit card? Small-grade explosives?”

“I don't suppose you are carrying your gun, are you?”

“To 221B? Are you kidding? I _always_ bloody carry it when I come round here,” said Greg. “But we can't do that. Their poor landlady's taken enough damage to her property. You know, if I wanted to be a true dick, I could have Sherlock pinched for this. Imprisoning a police officer against his will is _not_ on."

"True, but Sherlock might mention something about said officer having been in the company of his lover at the time." Mycroft rolled onto his side, his eyes dark. "One moment - I may have an idea. Do you still have your mobile?"

Greg patted his pocket and removed the phone. "Yeah, why?"

Mycroft's face lit with glee. "Sherlock, in his haste, was too clever by half, it seems. In relieving me of my clothing he also spirited away my mobile. He was likely so focused on getting you up here without suspecting anything that he neglected to pick your pocket. May I use it?"

Lestrade handed it over. "Who're you going to ring? The British Navy? MI6? Those blokes who took you off in the helicopter?"

"Better," said Mycroft, as he blithely keyed in a message. "I'm texting Dr. Watson."

(*)

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft was attired in a new suit and he and Lestrade were walking out into the wintry afternoon. They could still hear the sounds of a rather vigorous row going on upstairs. Something about "invasions of privacy," "complete idiocy," and "Good God, you were going to _listen_ to them go at it?"

Mycroft smiled serenely.

"I do believe my brother will get a taste of what we've experienced. I think John will resist admitting him to his bed for some time over this stunt."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer bloke." Greg huddled in his coat, lowering his chin in a futile attempt to keep his neck warm. "Sherlock says there's a good Chinese restaurant on the end of Baker Street. Fancy a quick lunch?"

"I wish I could, Gregory, but I really must get back to the office," said Mycroft. "There's a teleconference with the Turkish prime minister that I've already rescheduled several times."

Lestrade sighed. "All right. Guess I should get back, too. Maybe I'll just pop round to a chippy or something later."

He pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft's lips before motioning to a passing taxi. "Ring you later?"

Mycroft nodded, and Greg gave an ironic wave as he climbed in and was whisked out of sight. The elder Holmes stood on the curb for another minute or two before his own vehicle pulled up.

The door opened and he wearily climbed in beside Anthea, who was thumbing her Blackberry as usual.

"I suppose it's still on for 2 p.m.? The chat with Mr. Erdogan?"

She didn't look up. "Yes sir."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "Good. And the other matter we discussed?"

"Delivery has been arranged," she said. "I made your preferences very clear. And I've ensured you a free evening by rescheduling the consult with the Belorussian delegation."

"Excellent."

Mycroft relaxed slightly and allowed himself a small smile as he pictured the look on Gregory's face when, after the stag party, another large cake was delivered to his flat with quite a different sort of ... filling. Detective Inspector Dimmock couldn't have _all_ the fun, after all.


End file.
